When my little sister disappeared in the woods, I knew it was my fault. When her body was found, my grief was complicated by a mix of guilt and shame. A deep sadness that didn’t even allow me to cry. And I knew that’s why she was haunting me. I deserved it. I would wake in the night and see her there, huddled beside me on the bed. “I’m scared Sarah. It’s so dark.” Just long enough for me to see her tear-stained face shining in the night light I had started using. Then she was gone. She was only five, and she would be five forever.
We were all walking the trails that day. Me, Mom, and Jenny. My Mom had of course stopped to flirt with a stranger at the fork to the creek, so I kept walking, Jenny lagging behind, looking at every bug and flower. She was a happy child who delighted in the little secrets of life, the tiny living things that you only saw if you bothered to notice. “Oh my god, come on!” I yelled, as she slowed me down for at least the tenth time. “I am going to leave you behind if you keep doing this. It's called walking, not stopping!” I walked faster, and I soon forgot to check if she was behind me. When I finally noticed, it was too late. I backtracked, at first angry, then more and more frantic, till I reached the spot where Mom was still engaged in her flirting. That made me angry all over again.
She was unconcerned at first, and frankly seemed annoyed that she needed to find her smaller child, but she walked with me, calling Jenny’s name. After forty-five minutes of not finding her, we called the police. Two small-town officers arrived to search, giving us false hope with their ‘it usually ends well’ speech. They were right about one thing. We did find her. It didn’t take long, just a couple of hours. I didn’t see her body, but I overheard the two policemen. One was hunched over vomiting, tears streaming down his face, while the other one called it in.
Jenny had always been afraid of the dark, for as long as I could remember. She crawled into my bed often, even when Mom remembered her nightlight. She was afraid that some strange monster was there, under her bed, waiting. She would hop out of bed and run to my room. The monster was real, and he wasn’t in her room. He was waiting in the woods. His name was Charles Cantis, and he was arrested less than a mile away from where my sister was found, stuffed in a shallow hole. Raped. Strangled. The details I had overheard. I also heard the officer say, “I hope he killed her first...“ That’s not a detail you forget. His arrest brought no closure because I knew that even though he was the means to how she died, I was the reason.
I was losing sleep, and losing weight and it showed, not that my Mom would have noticed. She was lost in her own semblance of grief, surrounded by her friends and plied with alcohol and casseroles. She left me alone to drown in the pool I had made, too concerned with the sympathy and charity she could garner. I started sneaking out at night, blanket tucked in my backpack, to walk the 2 miles to the cemetery. I would sit at my sister’s grave, yet unmarked. I told her how sorry I was. I told her about Mom, about anything I could think of, to ease the knife in my stomach. It didn’t work, but I realize now I was torturing myself because I felt I deserved it. I left her Barbies, stuffed animals – whatever I thought to bring. It was macabre, but it seemed like the only thing I could do for her now. If I was lucky, she would appear there momentarily as well, eyes wet, to tell me again about the dark. The knife twisted. The pain was what I expected. It was what I needed.
One night, lost in thought, I grabbed a solar light to bring with me. I had seen a few others in graveyards at night. I always thought they lent a spooky aura to the resting places of the dead, who would never see or notice the light. Cemeteries are for the living after all, and maybe the light would help ease my guilt. She was afraid of the dark, so I would bring the light to her. I had been there an hour, shivering, talking, when she appeared. Her face held a smile, not the usual tears. She simply said, “Thank you Sissy. I love you.”
“I love you too, pest,” I whispered, just like I used to when she would sneak into my bed. I finally cried then. I was still crying when the sun came up and I made my way home. The knife was less deep. Just a little. She never appeared to me again, in bed or in the cemetery. A mixed blessing. I missed her, and longed to see her, talk to her. But maybe she was okay now, and maybe I will be okay too someday.
I still deserve to be haunted. But now I haunt her. I visit her grave every week, checking on the light, talking to her. Telling her about the birds, the beauty around her. The other graves flanking hers, and stories about who might rest in them. I make those stories up from the names and dates I can see. Fanciful tales. Tragedies. Comedies. I laugh at the sillier ones, and I can almost hear her.
I've started adding lights to these strangers’ final spots as well. From the street, the graveyard glows like a swarm of fireflies that have landed, forever frozen, alight. Moving the darkness farther away from where they all rest. I can only hope they are in peace, because I don’t have any proof either way. I just have the stories, and the lights, and memories of my little sister who will forever be five, chasing the bugs, smelling the flowers, and smiling in the sunshine.